I got to keep the clothes, at least.

Helga escorted me back to the bowels of the castle where I retrieved my stuff. She said very little as we walked through the halls and descended down the steps. I caught her staring at me when I finished packing, satchel stuffed to its brim, and her face expressed what I could only call fascination. Perhaps she started to realize what measures I went to keep Lacy alive.

My cheeks are still warm from my presentation as I follow her once more down the halls to my new sleeping quarters. With my sloppy packing of the satchel, I was unable to stuff a couple of my dresses in it, and now they just drape over my shoulder. I don't think I'll need them anyway unless they expect me to change once I've finished my morning hunts.

I pass by a grandfather clock posted in the hall, it reads thirty to noon. God, the days just stretch on here. Despite that, it feels like barely any time has passed from when I started as a scullery maid to here. I wonder if my pay will increase; something I should've asked Lady Dimitrescu, but on the other hand, I fear losing even the slightest favor I have with her. Perhaps Helga could inquire for me.

I voice my question to said housekeeper, "Am I expected to change, uniform, once I'm done hunting?"

Helga angles her head, as if the realization just dawned on her as well. "I would argue, yes. You're going to be a lady-in-waiting for Miss Bela; it's not exactly proper for her personal servant to be walking around in pants."

She looks over to me as I match her stride, and I glance to her an expression that shows just how little I care about looking proper or improper. Her eyes trace along my body once. Twice.

"I'll have to make some arrangements for the tailor to take your measurements. You'll need a whole new wardrobe if you're going to be the castle hunter."

"I still can't believe it. I actually get to go outside, if only for a little bit. Am I to be escorted?"

"Again, I would assume yes. You're still relatively new to the staff. And despite whatever interest the family has in you, I doubt they would trust you to be alone. At least for a few trips, until they're certain you won't run away."

I snort. "I may have been desperate to take this job, but I'm not so desperate, and stupid, to try and run from one of the lords."

Helga hums. "I must admit, I understated your abilities. What you demonstrated is more, complicated than I had imagined."

My happiness dims slightly. "Well, as far as I know, you've never had to struggle to put survive."

A bit of a jab, as well as a challenge. It became more than just putting food on the table. It was about the furs acting as blankets and rugs and curtains. It was about making sure Lacy always had a full belly despite my own feeling as shrunken as a walnut. If it wasn't for the house, it was for money.

I don't make eye contact with her, turning my attention to the tips of the new boots I'd gotten.

In a tone that is surprisingly, heartbreakingly gentle, she says, "No. I don't believe I have."

It's a little piece, but I'm certainly tucking it away for later. The fact that she mentioned even a hint I consider a success.

"What am I expected to use? A bow was obvious, but, would she allow firearms?"

In my periphery, her head turns. "You know how to shoot those as well?"

A shrug. "Taught by my father."

"I could, ask for you, if you desire."

I look to her, gripping the strap of the satchel across my chest. "If it won't get you in trouble, sure. If not, I'll easily manage."

Helga spares a ghost of a smile and her head snaps to the front, shoulders squaring. "Well, here we are to your quarters."

We only went up one flight of stairs, putting my new room on the second floor. I purposely kept my expectations low, but the room beyond the single white and gold decorated door is beyond anything I could've imagined.

It's a spacious suite bedecked in the usual – expected – ornate gold gildings along the white walls, but also features warm dark wood and a pine green palette. Tables and chairs are tastefully scattered about, the color working its way around the drapes, the rugs, and on the four-posted bed. Pillows inflate the already plush mattress, encased in the green and gold curtain that surrounds its border. A bookshelf has been built into one all, filled to the brim; although it looks more like encyclopedias rather than interesting reads. There's a desk poised in front of a wall lined with windows, and on the opposite, a door leads further into the chamber. The back of the room holds a large fireplace and above it is a large oil painting of Lady Dimitrescu in her seemingly younger years.

"That door leads to your bath." Helga say as she follows in behind me. I can hear her giggle as she asks me, "Do you like it?"

Breathlessly, I admit, "It's . . . beautiful."

It is, despite my discomfort of the painting – I don't like the idea of the Lady's eyes upon me even in my privacy. But, to be granted the privacy –

I can't help but think how the room reminds me of a morning in the woods; encapsulated in fabrics of velvet, silk, and satin. I wonder if Bela had any help in picking this room. I doubt Lady Dimitrescu took the time.

Helga then claps her hands together, snapping me out of my awe. "Come along now, I have until the end of the day to make you into a proper Lady's Maid."

"You think it'll take that long?" I ask, not bothering to hide my cringe.

"I think you're a fast learner . . . but only if you need to be."

I purse my lips, but then shrug my shoulders. She's got a point, but it also sparks the question: What would I be doing if I wasn't trying to provide for my sister?

In that world, my father would still be alive, my mother would be bright and alive. I'd likely only shoot for fun, practicing in my back yard, maybe shoot at the apples that used to grow on our tree in the backyard. I don't think I'd be very different – maybe I would've made more friends, maybe not; maybe I would've ended up taking those dance lessons my father had promised. But I don't think I'd be a "proper lady," as my mother had wanted. The only time I can recall ever feeling guilty for her is when she bought three beautiful gowns for me – but would only give them to me if I became a debutante.

Despite the thousands of times I told her I had no interest.

I remember in the years even before my father had passed, she would always correct me on my etiquette, my posture, my clothes, my language. She seemed to find a problem with everything about me. Maybe she was holding back those years my father was alive; because it made him happy to see me happy, and seeing him happy made her. . . tolerate.

But once he passed, all that allowance just dropped like a stone, and suddenly she resented me for things that made me . . . me. There were times when she was so bitter, I wondered if she actually hated my existence. Lacy was always easier: she loved the idea of fashionable society and tea parties and of the like. And while I like dresses and dancing, it was only for special occasions, not on a daily basis. I allowed myself to feel like a princess like every other little girl, but outside of parties or balls or festivals, I never felt the need to.

The cruel irony has come to bite me in the ass today, but at least I won't be completely clueless with Helga's teachings.

The housekeeper walks past me towards the wardrobe, opening the doors to reveal a small but stunning collection of gowns; just stuffed inside as if they were no better than used towels. "We'll have you dress appropriately first, and then we can begin."

"Don't those belong to the Dimitrescu family?"

"At this point, yes and no. they'll drop the gowns at the first sight of something more interesting, but then reclaim it if a servant or someone tries to take it."

And slit their throat for trying.

"I've already discussed things with Lady Bela before you're test. The gowns are yours."

She doesn't need to add on: if they fit. I haven't gained much weight since coming to the castle; in fact, I think the stress and worry has made me lose even more. I've wasted away to nothing. Beneath my shirt, my ribs reach out from inside of me, showing bones where flesh and meat should have been. And my breasts! Once well-formed, they are now no larger than they'd been in the midst of puberty. A lump clogs my throat, which I promptly swallow down. I've ate what I can, even having snuck out a few nights now for a midnight snack, but still my body burns more than I'm able to consume.

I almost don't want to wear the dresses – the idea of the gleaming silk against my protruding ribs is, almost sinful. But Helga pulls out a beautiful piece of deep plum and tosses it onto the bed. As she digs around the bottom shelf for a pair of shoes, she begins her lesson.

I couldn't imagine what Helga will have to teach me that could take the rest of the day, but she's got me working down to the last minute.

A Lady's Maid is hired to serve as a lady-in-waiting to her female employer. Usually, this means she serves as a personal maid to the lady of the house, but in my case, it'll be Lady Bela. But she warns me to be aware of any requests Lady Dimitrescu asks. Though Cassandra and Daniela have to ask permission, she is the Mistress of the House.

The duties of a Lady's Maid normally include the personal care of her employer. She oversees the maintenance of her employer's wardrobe, draws her bath, lays out her clothes, serves her meals when required, and keeps the lady's quarters tidy. A Lady's Maid is also required to care for her employer's garments, which consists of laundry, ironing, dry cleaning, and repair when necessary.

With each new duty she lays before me, my stomach shrinks, and my throat tightens. Be charming, but detached, and yet amused. Keep a grip and never crack, keep a stiff upper lip, and arch the back to maintain a regal gait. Shoulders back, stomach in, smile brightly, nod politely. There's a time and place and way for everything.

When I dress into the full-length gown and high-heeled shoes – not the ones I'll be wearing for the actual position – Helga instructs me on walking. The shoes are the worst part. I never mastered wearing high heels, and end up walking with such a stiff gait I might as well have wooden legs. The difference compared to the shoes I've always worn around the castle, and especially the boots, is stagnating. It's only made worse by the third hour, and I have blisters biting at my toes and heels.

The dress poses another problem. It keeps tangling around my shoes so, of course, I hitch it up to see the problem, and then Helga swoops down on me like a hawk, smacking my hands and yelling, "Not above the ankle!"

When my walking is deemed passable, there's still sitting, posture – apparently, I tend to duck my head – eye contact, hand gestures, and smiling. I questioned if anyone will actually pay me enough heed to talk to me, and Helga's answer was rather unsettling.

"The Lords are not bound to their domiciles, and neither is Mother Miranda."

At least I'm able to pick up enough tricks and protocols for Helga to deem it worthy, and calls for dinner to be served to my rooms. Out of playful spite, I hitch the skirt of the dress up to my thighs as I kick off the heels and flop back onto the bed.

God, my feet are throbbing. Even in the woods my feet never bothered me this much. I flex my toes and roll my ankles, sighing at the near orgasmic relief. I rub my feet together, careful of the blisters.

"Well, that's the best I can do," Helga says with a sigh.

She goes over to the armchair poised in front of the fireplace and makes to take my shirt and pants.

"Wait! Leave it. I'll wear it for tomorrow."

She stares at me bewildered. Even near horrified. "You've already sweated in this, why worsen it?"

I slip off the bed with the silken dress and pad over to her, taking the shirt from her hands. I take a deep inhale as I press the pit of the sleeve to my nose. "It's not the worst. I'll throw it in the hamper tomorrow. It'll for sure be dirty after that."

I toss the shirt back onto the armchair, leaving Helga to stare after me in disgust.

"What?" I ask as I fall back onto the bed. Sink, would be a better term. The plushness of the mattress near swallows me whole like a marshmallow maw.

"It's just, odd seeing your different shifts. During the interview you were as timid as a mewling kitten. Now you open your mouth, you come across more as sullen and hostile."

"Yeah, well, when the whole village is turned against you, that habit will develop." I nearly snarl, grouchy from my aching feet.

Helga begins to fold my clothes – as if she needed to do something with them. "I don't know where you pulled that feeble, petrified girl on the first day, but I haven't seen her before or since. You could at least try to be a little cheery."

"And this place has given me so many reasons to be cheery," I counter.

"You seemed to like Gretta. And she's as bright as a marigold in May."

"Well, that's different. She's actually likable, and genuine."

A corner of Helga's mouth turns up. "And I'm not?"

"You're blunt and forward, which I respect. But even you have to admit you're not as, shining, as Gretta."

She seems nod her agreement. "A secret, lovely thing of beauty."

There's a knock at my door and Helga answers, revealing a young, unfamiliar maid with a cart of food. Even so, I nearly hide behind the bed when Helga opens the door. I was able to ask the housekeeper if I can serve myself food, and her answer was a chuckle, saying that I've risen above such menial tasks now that I'm the castle hunter, and Bela's personal servant. She said I'm expected to order my own food to my room, but if I were to head down to the kitchen, no one would really bat an eye.

Well, Kathryn might. I guess even with my promotion – and because I'll be bringing all my kills to her – she still outranks me. I don't really mind, but I'm not looking forward to going to the kitchen, all those glares and pity and suspicious eyes –

Helga had ordered a feast for an army. I was hoping the woman had a robust appetite, but it turns out she planned to fill me like a Thanksgiving turkey.

The food tasted amazing; unfortunately, it was a waste of a good meal. After a few forkfuls, I dashed into the bathroom to deposit the contents of my stomach. I wanted to eat, to put a hand to a swollen belly, to wish that I'd never eaten a morsel and swear that I'd never eat again.

I'll eat well now, won't I? And, more importantly, my stomach will adjust.

By the time Helga leaves, it is around five in the evening. A storm has settled over the village, the rain tapping against the glass. I'm still standing in the plum-colored dress, its skirt puddling at my feet without the heels. I pace around the room for a few minutes, waiting for verification that Helga is really gone for the evening. After about three minutes, I head towards the bathroom.

Past the opulent door, the room is round, and at its center sits a porcelain tub bordered in gold with matching knobs and legs shaped like a lion's paw. Surrounding it are four white columns that are stark against the marble tile. Their golden pedestals shinning in the light of the scones. The vanity and mirror sit against the left wall, the glass bordered by intricately carved whorls of vines. A small chandelier dangles over the tub, piercing the painted images of frolicking angels and nymphs in the ceiling.

I look around in astonishment, my mouth agape as I graze my fingers along the countertop. There are no windows here, but that's okay. I explore the cabinets and contents, pulling out a couple of vials that remind me of the ones from Luiza's house. One smells of vanilla, the other cinnamon. Together it reminds me of Christmas.

I place them on a small cart beside the tub before turning one of the gold knobs. I'm not used to controlling the temperature – so I spent about a minute hissing and flinching at the sudden changes in the hot and cold until I finally find a comfortable setting. I dump the vials into the water, watching it churn like ink before going over to one of the cabinets in the vanity and pulling out a clean towel.

Someone was smart enough to place a rug beneath the bathtub, and I giggle as I step from foot to foot on the cushiony surface. As the water reaches the lip, I turn it off and remove the gown and my intimates. I fold it as neatly as I care to before leaving it on the second shelf of the cart.

My excitement bubbling like the suds on the surface of the water, I waft a hand over the foam. They cling to my hand in a clump that slowly starts to dissipate. I huff into it and watch it burst apart and fall back onto the water. I dip my hand in and cringe for a second before it adjusts. Tolerable.

I swing my leg over the lip. With a delicate splash, my foot finds the bottom. I can't stop my giggle as I grip the edge and carefully swing over my other leg. The tub is unnecessarily big – enough for two to three people – and deep enough that the water reaches up to my knees. Biting my lip but still with a smile, I slowly sink to my neck.

The water's warmth makes me moan – especially when I'm finally off my feet and just sitting in a mass of bubbles and warm water.

This is . . . unbelievable. Even when I rest my head back, expecting it to hit the now-warm porcelain, I'm met with a narrow pillow that cradles my neck perfectly.

Oh god, I might never come out.

I allow myself to just sit there, cocooned in the water's warmth, the bubbles separating and rejoining across the surface. And as I listen to the quieted rumble of thunder outside, the tapping of the rain barely audible, and the shimmering silence that is my new room, I'm content.

I close my eyes and lean back, a smile tugging on my lips. I could sleep here – I really could.

Even the thought of Lacy doesn't disturb me – doesn't make me feel guilty for enjoying some luxury. I've been caring for her my whole life, and while I feel no resentment, for once I allow myself some, spoils.

Despite the circumstances, I've finally been granted some luxury that I truly feel I deserve. If that makes me selfish, then fine. Lacy is safe and at Luiza's; guarded by the village who still loves my sister, even if they don't trust me. I can live with that.

I start by washing my hair with the oils and creams, then I take a fresh bar of soap that smells of almonds and begins cleaning myself all over. Once I've thoroughly covered myself in sweet-smelling bubbles, I pull the drain plug and let the 'dirtied' water swirl down. Then because I can, I turn on the water again and begin to rinse myself.

The freshness of feeling clean, this allowance to use and waste water, it almost makes working here worth the pain and stress.

I step out of the tub and wrap my hair in a towel before searching for a nightgown. I manage to find one in another cabinet, and it's of . . . unexpected make. It's of silk material colored a delicate lilac with thin straps and black lace along the neck and hem line. It reaches to my ankles while a slit stretches up to my hips.

I catch my reflection in the mirror, and I pause. Even though I feel clean and rejuvenated, my face still retains such, exhaustion. It looks – I look – haggard: though my skin has some color flushed to it, my eyes still look ever so disturbingly sunken, my cheekbones sharper than I remember, my jaw pronounced. I take steadying breaths, savoring the hope. I'll eat. A lot. And exercise. I can be healthy again.

I tilt my head and I watch my reflection, smile. In this nightgown – with fresh, clean skin and my hair falling in a natural, wavy curtain – I look noticeable. Remarkable. Feminine. Likable.

Extraordinary, my father would say.

My smile widens despite the silver lining my eyes. Even if I hadn't heard his voice in two years, I can still envision the tone; like gravel swathed in honey. He'd said as much when he caught me staring at me reflection one day, distaste and disgust and hatred burning my teal eyes.

You're no status quo debutante. Why keep trying to be? You're more than that.

"Mother would say otherwise." I mutter to the mirror – to my lonely reflection.

Well, that doesn't mean you should change. She should change her point of view. To thine own self be true.

Then he would tickle my chin as he stands behind me, rising about a foot taller than me, place his hands on my shoulders, and kiss the back of my head.

I touch my hands to their opposite shoulder. My reflection following, despite there only being the thin silk straps.

The world quiets. And for the first time in two years, I feel my father's presence.

We've had this encounter on more than one occasion, and each time, to cheer me up, he would start singing one my favorite songs of his – off key – and spin me around into a dance until I was red in the face from laughing.

Then his voice would steady, and the song would flow from his lips like a babbling brook. There is not one hair on you that I would rearrange. I love you the way you are. And that will never change.

It was the most important stanza to him, and he never once sand it differently, because he wanted me to know the truth in it. And we'd dance and dance until I promised him I was fine.

I flutter my eyes open, blinking past the tears, and I find my muscles trembling. Not from fear or sadness. But earnest.

My giggle is laced with a sob, but I'm . . . happy.

And I take a step to the left, twirl; take a step to the right, and twirl again. The skirt of the nightgown flares more than I thought, and I giggle again as I hold my arms aloft.

With my father's song on my lips, and his love in my heart, I take the beginning step to a waltz.

And I begin to sing.

When I finally collapse onto the bed, I can't fall asleep, despite the exhaustion in every inch of my body. I had danced for over two hours, and with only my bare feet on the wooden floors, I'm pretty sure I've created blisters on the soles of my feet now too. But at least the trembling stopped. I wouldn't call it tremors, just built-up excitement and a want and need to do something. I've had similar instances, only those were fueled by anger and restrain to keep from choking my mother. Dancing usually helps – as would any exercise. The longest I've gone is nearly four hours straight, until my knees literally buckled beneath me from exhaustion.

Shifting to lie on my side to ease the pain in my back, I run my hand down the mattress, and blink at the freeness of movement. Looking up at the ceiling, I rotate my raw, burning joints and give a sigh of contentment.

But it is too strange to lie on a comfortable mattress, to have silk caress my skin and a pillow cradle my cheek. I had forgotten what food other than dried venison and hard bread tastes like, what a clean body and clothes can do to a person. Now it is utterly foreign.

I turn to look at the clock and it reads eleven at night. I'll be due to hunt in the morning. They never gave me a specific hour, but I can only assume it would be the same as how it was at home. I assume Helga might come to fetch me, since that woman is awake even before the roosters. At least I have an outfit ready. The thought makes me chuckle.

The softness of the mattress smothers me, and I shift again, lying on my back, despite the pain it gives me. I wonder what'll be in store for me once I start working as Lady Bela's personal servant. A part of me doesn't think it'll be, complicated. If it were Daniela, absolutely; Cassandra . . . I'd probably already be strapped to a table, gutted, and splayed like a deer. But for Bela, she might not even care what I do.

She seems to spend most of her days alone, why ruin that even if she helped me? What could I possibly do with her? And if she has secrets, I'd be more of a risk or a liability.

I wriggle myself beneath the down comforter, sighing as my form is swallowed by the pillows. Despite the circumstances and other highly possible outcomes, I find myself intrigued.

Imagining outrageous feasts and the smell of pine and snow, I finally fall asleep.